Mother's Day
by detective-sweetheart
Summary: He stares at the words underneath the name that he could never forget, even if he wanted to. Beloved wife and devoted mother, he thinks, and then, Yeah, right.


**A/N: Really early, I know, but the muse came across the prompt "Mother's Day" in one of my lists, and wouldn't let go. I own nothing. **

* * *

He really doesn't know why he bothers.

It was always the same when he was a kid. Nothing was ever good enough. He'd always had the feeling that he could have given her the world and it still wouldn't have been what she wanted. Then again, it was usually hard to tell what she wanted; if she was in a good mood, it was because she was drunk, and if she was in a bad mood, it was for the same reason.

And for a reason still unknown to himself, he never gave up trying.

It's why he finds himself standing in the middle of an aisle filled with cards.

* * *

The whole thing is completely ridiculous, Mike thinks to himself, as his eyes roam over the rows , trying to find the one that isn't going to mean anything, anyway, but somehow, it means something to him. There are birthday cards, greeting cards, those thinking-of-you cards that people send just to make it look like they care when they really don't. But those aren't what he's looking for.

No, what he's looking for is one of those cards with that metallic script on the front that says 'Happy Mother's Day', even though his mother has been gone for years.

And every year, he still takes a moment to stand in front of her headstone and leave a card.

* * *

If he thinks back hard enough, he can remember a time before he got to the point where he once told Lennie Briscoe that the next time he went into a church willingly, he'd be carried by six of his closest friends.

He thinks that this might be the reason why he still hasn't given up trying, but then again, he isn't really sure. Once upon a time, Mike used to think that if he looked hard enough, he'd be able to see traces of the mother who loved him before the alcohol had taken over so completely that she could hardly stand to look at him half the time. Nowadays, he's seen too much to believe that it was anything more than an illusion. The imagination of a child that desperate for any sort of affection that he'd take it even if it wasn't real.

Every now and then, when he sits in the park, he'll watch the kids on the playground and say a silent prayer that none of them are going through what he went through.

* * *

It does nothing to change the so-called tradition of leaving the card.

Granted, he knows he should probably be bitter, and in all honesty, sometimes, he is. But she's still his mother, and like he never gave up trying to do something, _anything,_ really, that might change her mind about him, he still hasn't given up hoping that maybe, that day would finally come. Maybe it's stupid, maybe it isn't, but Mike hasn't ever really given himself enough time to think about it. He just does it. And maybe he's a sucker for punishment, because he does it_ every_ year, and ends up thinking about the same things _every_ time, but he still does it.

When he finds the card he's looking for, he takes it, buys it, and leaves the store.

* * *

He could walk this path with his eyes closed and not have to worry about tripping over anything.

This particular holiday isn't the only time he comes here. And yet the second Sunday in May is the only one where he makes a point of coming, usually alone. He'd thought briefly of letting someone tag along, once, but it hadn't seemed right then. It still doesn't now. So he goes at it alone, and leaves the card and a white rose, because they'd always been her favorites.

And then he stands there for a moment, and stares at the words beneath the name that he knows he could never forget, even if he wanted to.

Beloved wife and devoted mother, he thinks, and then, Yeah, right.

* * *

His fingers trace over the name anyway.

He still hasn't managed to figure out why he doesn't just let it go already. Why he still keeps trying, and why he keeps bothering, even when he knows she isn't there to make one of her comments about how it isn't good enough. Nothing was ever good enough, Mike muses now, wryly. Not in life, and probably not in death, either. The whole thing seems like a meaningless gesture overall, and while it might be to some people, it isn't, to him.

It takes him a while, but finally, he breaks his silence.

"Happy Mother's Day, Mom."


End file.
